Word for today: REJUVENATION. Mudd and I had some tough days together; I think it was harder than we figured it would be. And today was no cake walk, but somehow knowing it was our last big day together caused a triumphant experience that we won’t soon forget. Another on of those days with impossibly too many good memories for one day.

It was nice waking up before dawn today with a key to the bathroom. No garden spade, no tugboat lights, no curious creatures this morning. I did get a little kick out of a small sign on the toilet paper dispenser that said ‘ABSOLUTELY’ no smoking. I wondered if that modifier had any effect; I mean no means no. Without the ‘ABSOLUTELY’ would someone think, “We’ll, surely a little bit of smoking won’t hurt.” Humans are so entertaining.

Speaking of entertaining, today we passed through the final lock: Mel Price lock #26. This lock is the newest (opened in 1990) and is named after Charles Melvin Price, who was a US Congressman for 43 years. As if there were enough photos and video of my own on this post, I’ve included a few from Wikipedia here as well to give a little more lock & dam context.

This may be the newest lock on the river, but it was the spookiest. First after we were inside, they sounded an alarm as the gateway was being raised at the entrance. Then, when they started lowering the water, the whole lock echoed with haunted house noises. This lock had a 20’ drop, so the creepy sounds went on for a long time (maybe 20 minutes). When they finished dropping us, they only opened the exit gate part way and told us we’re free to leave – every other lock would open the gate fully, then sound a horn to indicate it’s safe to go. It was quite a memorable final lock; the US Army Corps of Engineers certainly saved the best for last here!

Once through the lock, the sky was clear and the sun was hot. We didn’t have a long day planned, it was only about 18 miles from Alton to our planned stealth camp on Gabaret Island, but the weather was predicted to be hot with little wind.

We passed by Wood River Illinois where there were some fuel loading facilities from the local refineries. But being a Saturday not much was happening. A short while later we passed some tugboat maintenance facilities; now because it was Saturday with nobody working we could get up close to these beasts without fear of being scolded.

After lunch we approached what I believe is the single most dangerous part of this entire journey. Like many things, when done wisely, it’s no danger at all. But fail to pay attention or do something stupid, then death is on the line: the Chain of Rocks. This area upstream of St. Louis was once a natural grouping of rocks that half dammed the river. When the Corps of Engineers built a channel for barge traffic to bypass, they threw in some more rocks to make a bigger dam, and a bigger hazard. Through in the occasional home appliance that come floating down and it becomes lethal in low water conditions. Going through the canal to bypass the Chain of Rocks is an option, but the canal is narrow and crowded with barges and tugboats whose captains don’t much care for paddling types. So, portage around the rocks is the safest, albeit tiring option.

As we approached the rocks, we could hear the rapids from a half mile away, they sounded ferocious enough. Getting closer, you still couldn’t see the falls, but you could detect a sort of watery cliff where the river disappeared. We didn’t mess around; we stayed close to the bank and 100’ before the waterfalls we landed. When we got out to investigate the rocks, we agreed that you’d have to have a death wish to try to navigate that. Earlier in the day some fishermen stopped me to ask my intentions on the Chain of Rocks, and they encouraged me to turn around and head for the barge channel. They informed me that people have died on the rocks in recent years. But as I said, the portage was plenty safe and I’m glad we chose that option.

Though to portage we had to completely unload the boats, but them on wheels, then with two of us working one boat together, get them 50’ up a steep hill. Then we schlepped all the gear 500’ across a parking lot, then went back and wheeled the carts across the lot. Then gear down a steep 50’ hill and across 500’ of sand to the water. Then one boat at a time followed the same route down with a final reloading of boats. It was over an hour making this transition around the rocks; it was now 1pm and we were glad we had only a few miles left.

It was only 5-6 miles to our stealth camping plans. Mudd had looked up Mosenthein Island and it was described as “popular with party boats and campers.” Maybe we’ll meet some new friends who will offer us a beer and listen to our tales? It was Saturday night after all, and it was a sunny and warm day – perfect for party boats! As we approached the island – no humans to be seen. What, the interweb wrong?!?! It was going to be Mudd’s last night on the river and a celebration was in order!

I then decided that I would need to make a beer run. There wasn’t a store in sight, much less an obvious place to go ashore, but the interweb seemed to indicate there were some places within a mile, as the crow flies. I told Mudd I would go ashore and have a look and that he should wait behind. When I landed and started to get out, I noticed Mudd was still in the middle of the channel looking at his phone letting the current carry him downstream. He was too far away to hear me, or maybe the volume was too loud on whatever he was watching on Netflix, and he would have difficulty getting back upstream, so I paddled away from shore and chased him down.

Attempt number two, this time I was more specific: “I go on beer run, you stay by my boat at shore and defend it from pirates.” I exited the river at what appeared to be some sort of barge salvage yard. It was Saturday, so it was vacant. I went through the property and climbed a steep levy. I couldn’t see the supposed Mobil gas station in the distance, and besides, there was no apparent way to get there. I would’ve needed my dad’s machete just to make it a half mile through the brush when I would then be met by some sprawling penitentiary. This would take hours; back to the boat.

While at attempt #2, I noticed on Google maps what appeared to be a kind of gravel road that got close-ish to the river that could lead towards a promising neighborhood for beverage marts. So, final attempt #3; after this we would be 1/2 mile from our camp destination. 

The most improbable beer run course looked like this: exit the river through a flood diversion spillway; climb steep bank to a 10’ concrete levy retention wall; go 1/4 mile to a hill that enables getting over wall; go down gravel road on the other side that leads into train yard; climb through 2 parked lines of box cars to get to another gravel yard; follow gravel road through concrete plant to paved road. From here it would be less than a mile walk to the Mobil station. I texted Mudd to let him know the hard part is over; beer is all but in hand now. 

Then, I noticed a man up the road with his hood open; he was looking at something on the other side of the road and had a tall boy in his hand. “How’re you doing?” I called as I approached. “What did you say?” “I said how you doing? Is your car okay?” “Oh, yeah, it’s fine.” Then he walked up and closed the hood, eyeing me suspiciously. Was it the beard? The tan? Or maybe it was the life vest, paddling gloves and dry bag over my shoulder that concerned him. “Well, if your car’s okay, I’ll buy you a six pack if you take me up to the Mobil so I can get myself some beer.” I proposed to him nonchalantly. He stared at me closely for several seconds, then said, “Can I trust you?” I laughed, took off my paddling glove and extended my hand, “I’m Matt.” We shook; he said his name is Roger; he asked a few questions about what I was doing and how I got there. We talked about the river journey as we drove in his 1972 Town & Country and listened to his Johnnie Taylor CD. We also talked about his life (he’s 72 and retired after 32 years working for Chrysler), his wife (separated for 17 years), and his kids (2 of his 5 kids were killed in a bad part of St. Louis, there are some bad neighborhoods). He took me to the Loves station where he always buys because “they have the coldest beer in town.” But he told me on the way that I had to buy Stag, which is what he was drinking. I had never had Stag, and don’t think I had even seen it before 3 days ago. But, a deal was a deal. I got us a 12 pack and 5 pounds of ice, and I bought Roger 2 more tall boys out of one of the three giant tubs full of an assortment of beers on ice by the cash register. Mow and Stan behind the counter eyed me strangely, but they bagged my purchase and I was quickly back in the car. Roger dropped me at the concrete plant just past where I found him. He said, “I hope I do see you again, Matt.” “If we do meet again, you’re now a friend, Roger. Thanks for your kindness.”

Now, with a big smile on my face, I made the reverse trek through rail cars, walls and woods, now made more difficult by the burden of my beer run success. Mudd was amazed; he shook his head and said “you the man”, or something of that sort.

When we got to the island camp, we confirmed, we were alone, though the island could’ve held 10,000 people and their tents. We were satisfied with the day’s journey; we were happy to have several hours to relax and cool off in the river before sundown. We laughed at the ridiculous expanse of beach to choose our tent sites, but we settled close to one another because that’s what you do when you travel the river together. It was a fun week together and we celebrated it until the last Stag was killed.

But wait… there’s more!

When Mudd and I retired to our tents, I got a text from Isaac. Today he was playing in a charity golf outing organized by his girlfriend Ellie’s mom. He texted me shortly afterwards to say he was playing with… members of the Warsaw Gun Club! What the!  

It turns out that Ellie’s step dad is from Warsaw, and he’s friends with some of the Warsaw caviar gang. As soon as I got Isaac’s text, I tried a FaceTime call from the tent to get the story. He picked up right away, but we were both a little stopped in our tracks by the image I projected from the dim light inside the tent.

I thought, ‘certainly I’m not that creepy!’ But I think I was. It was kind of hard to have a conversation because the images I projected just seemed to get creepier. Isaac told me about the Gun Club golfers and how his Ellie’s step dad made the connection; he was not golfing with guys I met, but some sons or nephews; what a great surprising coincidence. I was glad for an excuse to talk with Isaac and I apologized for the nightmares that would likely ensue from my appearance. It made me want to read Beowulf again to see if maybe the beast Grendel was really a good person but caught in bad lighting. Though if I remember the story correctly, there were arms torn off somewhere, so maybe I’m nothing like Grendel, yet.

I know today’s playlist edition isn’t very ‘rivery’, but this is what was playing when I got into Roger’s car: we turned it up to 11 and rode to the Love’s gas station listening to Johnnie Taylor Testify